


We Wear Red (so they don't see us bleed)

by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Vampire Slayer, Angst and Humor, Gen, Keith and Shiro are Siblings, M/M, Magic-Users, Slayer Lance, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Vampire Keith (Voltron), Vampire Slayer(s), Watcher Shiro, Witch Allura
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-09-30 09:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10160477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee/pseuds/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee
Summary: “Why isn’t Pidge the Slayer?”“Yeah, if Pidge was the Slayer those vampires would have been slain.”“So slain.”“If Pidge was the Slayer we’d be getting lattes and binge-watching Mythbusters by now.”“Yeah.  Vampires? Done. No problem.”“Why’s Lance the Slayer? It just seems really inefficient.”“Yeah, I can barely get my math homework in on time, this seems like a really poor choice on the part of Destiny.”Lance didn't ask to be a teenage vampire slayer. Keith didn't ask to be a teenage vampire-with-a-soul.  Shiro did ask to be a Watcher but he's seriously regretting it now.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What am I doing with my life? Why am I posting another WIP? Where did I go wrong? 
> 
> So here's my goofy kinda-Buffy AU (conveniently labeled 'Buffy AU' on my computer). But I've tweaked some stuff for this universe. In this world there are multiple Slayers (because it seemed kind of unmanageable for there to be only one person in all the world tasked with fighting literally thousands of vampires and demons - how would the Slayer be everywhere at once?). And while the Slayers in this 'verse are predominantly female, they are not exclusively female - hence why we have Slayer!Lance. (I've got more elaborate headcanons about how vampires and slayers and demons work in this 'verse but that's the basics)
> 
> That's about all I have to say...enjoy this mess

**Chapter 1**

            “Guys, I think I’m developing superpowers,” Lance announces as he throws himself (carefully, carefully, this morning’s string of broken household items has taught him that his apparent newfound strength is actually kind of dangerous and not nearly as cool as _The Incredibles_ would suggest) into his usual seat next to Pidge on the bus. Hunk, in the seat across the aisle, leans over to hand Lance a breakfast burrito because Hunk is an angel and it’s Monday, Lance definitely forgot to eat breakfast. (Not to mention on this particular Monday he’d been a little preoccupied with hiding all the things he’d super-broken with his _super-strength, what the fuck is happening right now_ from his mom).

            Pidge barely looks up from her laptop. “Lance, for the last time, you aren’t going to turn into Spiderman just because a spider bit you on the sophomore class camping trip. That’s not how spider bites work, I checked.”

            “I think it’s nice that Lance still has hopes and dreams,” Hunk observes around a mouthful of his own breakfast burrito, “But yeah, Lance, even WebMD says that spider-powers aren’t gonna happen. And they think that shoulder pain always means heart failure.”  
            “It doesn’t,” Pidge pipes in, “It typically means impingement or bursitis. Although heart attacks are a possibility.”

            “Wow, okay, Miss Scrabble USA, care to explain what those SAT words mean?” Lance asks, temporarily distracted.

            “Pinched nerves.”

            “So you could have just said that.”

            “Yeah, but I wanted to distract you from the super powers thing.”

            “I DO SO HAVE SUPER POWERS!”

            And of course now everyone on the bus is staring at him. Well Lance feels like an idiot. Because he can’t _just_ be the most awkward person on the bus, he has to be the most awkward person alive, period, he gives everyone around them a jaunty wave and returns to the conversation at hand.

            “I do so have super powers,” Lance hisses to his friends, “I’m not kidding. Guys, I broke the knob off the bathroom faucet this morning, I snapped the lever off the toaster, I broke the blender, just…broke it, into lots of pieces, and I’m pretty sure I cracked the doorframe _and_ the window _in_ the front door when I closed it this morning,” he takes a deep breath, “Guys. I have super strength.”

            “All of those could be coincidences,” Pidge argues, “The faucet could have just been loose, the toaster could be old, the blender…I don’t know about the blender, and maybe the wind caught the door just as you closed it, making the window rattle and the frame creak. You probably didn’t break it.”

            “Pidge. Listen to yourself. You sound like the doubter right before they get eaten by the demon ghost zombie in the horror movie.”

            “Okay, technically, one thing cannot be all those things at the same time, it’s actually impossible,” Hunk points out.

            “ _Hunk_ ,” Lance whines, “ _Pidge,_ focus!”

            “I’m not buying the superpowers thing, sorry dude,” Pidge says, without sounding particularly sorrowful.

            “Yeah, me either, buddy.” At least Hunk sounds genuinely remorseful. “Anyway,” Lance takes back that thing about remorse, “did Pidge tell you about the weird dude who followed her home last night?”

            “What?” Lance yelps, “No! _Pidge,_ are you okay? Were you okay? Where did the bad man touch you?”

            “Get off, you weirdo,” Pidge swats his fluttering hands away, “and no one touched me anywhere. Just this weird dude tailed me for a couple blocks, growling.”

            “Growling?”

            “Yeah, like a dog. Super weird. But he didn’t _touch_ me, gross.”

            “You were pretty freaked out, though,” Hunk says, “I’m pretty freaked-out by proxy, honestly.”

            “That wasn’t the weirdest part, though,” Pidge says.

            “It gets weirder than some random guy following you _growling_?” Lance raises a skeptical eyebrow at that.

            “Yeah,” she nods, her bangs flopping in her eyes, “This orange cat comes flying out of nowhere and claws up growling dude’s face. That’s when I made a break for it, when he was fighting off the cat.”

            “Now you’re just messing with me,” Lance says flatly.

            “No joke,” she says and huh, that’s Pidge’s serious face, “An orange tabby cat attacked a creepy growling stalker for me. It was awesome.”

            “I hope the cat got away,” Hunk says.

            “Yeah, me too,” Pidge agrees as the bus pulls to a stop in front of their school.

            Lance stares dejectedly out the window, “Oh Sunnydale High, how I hate thee, let me count the ways.”

            “Buck up, it’s sophomore year,” Pidge says, “One year down.”

            “Three more to go,” Lance says moodily as he follows his friends outside into the bright light of day.

…

            Keith’s dreams are all in shades of red now. Like the world inside his head has turned into a darkroom from hell or maybe the heart of an ember, the core of a ruby, the center of a perfect drop of blood before it spatters on the floor.

            _“Hold him down.”_

_“I’ll start the ritual.”_

_“Stop, what are you doing?” He’s so hungry and they smell so warm but somehow the air around them burns, burns, BURNS. And where’s Shiro? Where’s Mom? No, Mom is dead, he saw her die, and Shiro…is Shiro dead too? No, Shiro can’t be dead; the vampires couldn’t have gotten Shiro too…_

_“I said HOLD HIM DOWN.”_

_“He’s stronger than before, sir.”_

_“Well of course he is, he’s one of them now. HOLD HIM DOWN.”_

_“Mom? Shiro?”_

_“Your mother is dead.”_

_He knew that, he knew that, why does he keep forgetting? Why is he so hungry? The back of his throat burns like the acid from his stomach is trying to crawl back up his throat or maybe like he hasn’t had a drink of water in far too long._

_“Shiro? Where’s Shiro? Where’s my brother?  
          “Sir, he’s struggling.” _

_“Start the ritual then.”_

_“Where’s my brother? Shiro? SHIRO? My brother will come for me. Whatever you’re doing, he’ll stop you, my brother will come for me.”_

_“Your brother is unconscious, he’s barely alive, all thanks to your kind.”_

_“My what?”  
            “He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, sir.” _

_“Well tell him then.”_

_“Your kind. Vampires. You’re one of them now.”_

_What? That…that can’t be. Mom wouldn’t let them get him, she promised, she promised him that she’d never let them get him._

_But if Mom is dead…_

_All bets are off if Mom is dead._

_“Begin the ritual.”_

_“Yes, sir. To the Slayer’s life let this demon be bound, when the Slayer bleeds so shall this accursed shell, when the Slayer feels pain so shall this fell creature, should the Slayer perish so shall this vampire be erased from this earth. So shall it be that to the next Slayer to arise this creature’s life shall be shackled for all eternity.”_

            Keith snaps awake in the pitch darkness of his bedroom, Latin still ringing in his ears, fingers tingling.

…

            “Ow.”

            “So apparently super powers do not guard against papercuts, good to know.”

            “Pidge, you are not helpful,” Lance snarks as he tries to stop the bleeding without getting blood on his shirt. This basically amounts to shaking his wounded hand repeatedly.

            “Ew, you’re getting blood everywhere,” Pidge scrunches up her nose, “Stop that.”

            “You really should carry some bandaids with you,” Hunk observes, “You hurt yourself often enough.”

            “I don’t need this abuse from the both of you,” Lance complains, pulling out his schedule delicately, trying not to leave bloody fingerprints everywhere, “Okay, what’s next? Hey, sweet, we’ve got Home Ec right before a free period.”

            “And then lunch. Not bad,” Hunk agrees.

            “Ugh, remind me why we’re taking Home Ec?” Pidge sighs.

            “Because between Hunk’s cooking and my sewing, knitting, and various other fiber-art-related talents this is the one class I’m guaranteed an A in without having to do anything?” Lance says, trading his Algebra II book in for his Chemistry book at his locker.

            “It’s a class where I can play in a kitchen for an hour for a grade. It’s basically perfect,” Hunk offers with a shrug when Pidge turns an accusatory glare on him.

            She slumps in defeat, “It’s reinforcing patriarchal domestic values.”

            “Dude, I just want to make a dope pillowcase and brownies for credit,” Lance says, “and Hunk and I are guys. We’re reverse-engineering the patriarchy.”

            “That’s not reverse-engineering. That’s role-reversal,” Pidge says flatly.

            Lance ruffles her hair, “Yeah, and this is the only class they’ll let you take for an elective after you hacked into the school district database that one time.”

            She sighs, “When you’re right you’re…less wrong than normal.”

            “Your generosity with compliments never fails to astound me.”

…

            Keith is bored. He prowls his and Shiro’s rooms restlessly but they don’t get any more interesting upon triple or quadruple inspection. Cardboard boxes hem him in on all sides, and he could try to unpack but the bulk of the boxes are just extensions of his brother’s musty old book collection and he doesn’t want to mess with that on the off-chance that any of the volumes are cursed, holy, or, god forbid, he organizes them the wrong way and Shiro has a fit.

            Keith’s stuff, what they could salvage from the ruins of the little row house they shared with their mom in London, fits into three boxes, and he’s unpacked all of it, even the silver cross Mom gave him for this thirteenth birthday. He can’t wear it anymore, the metal burns whenever he touches it, but he hangs the chain off the desk lamp he has by his bed anyway. He likes looking at it.

            God, it’s boring being a vampire.

            The demon side of him growls in frustration in the back of his head. He’s nicknamed it Red, the primal force that infiltrated his body when they turned him. It’s what he would be if he hadn’t retained his soul, if his mother’s blood hadn’t saved him. Just a hungry beast who could talk like a human, walk like a human, and kill like only a demon could. But like this, with Keith in control, Red seems more like a temperamental housecat than anything else. Admittedly, it’s not so much a housecat as a lion or a tiger, an apex predator that has just happened to acknowledge him as leader of the pack. For now. Assuming the ‘pack’ is his now-demonic body.

            Great, this vampire thing is literally driving him insane.

            He pokes around the fridge for lack of anything better to do, but he’s not really hungry and biting into a bag of blood seems kind of wasteful when he doesn’t know when Shiro will be able to get any more. (They’d mutually agreed – well, Keith had shouted and Shiro had shouted and eventually Keith proved he could shout longer, louder, and more reasonably – that Shiro would not donate any blood to the Feed Keith Fund. Keith doesn’t want to grow accustomed to seeing and smelling his brother as food.)

            He closes the fridge, suddenly disgusted with himself.

            He looks around the darkened apartment and sighs. Being a vampire sure is boring.

…

            “Is it just me or does the teacher look a little…freaked out?” Lance whispers to Hunk during Home Ec as their teacher – he’s new and _very_ attractive if you’re into unrealistically gorgeous people with mysterious scars – struggles to get through the syllabus up front.

            “Well, this is the third time Brenda’s asked him to go back over his no-cheating policy,” Hunk mutters back.

            “I’m sorry, did you have a specific question about the academic honesty policy or did you not hear me the first two times, Miss…” the new teacher takes a moment to consult his class list “…Fitzwilliam? Because you should have a copy of the class syllabus in front of you and, honestly, I’m new to teaching in the states, this is just the district policy, I copied and pasted it from their website.”

            Brenda opens her mouth but Pidge surprises everyone but Lance and Hunk by groaning and saying, “We get it, the new teacher’s hot, can we please move on?”

            That’s apparently enough to throw the teacher through a loop. He blinks a few times before saying, awkwardly, “Thank you, Miss…Holt. Thanks for that. Um. Let’s just get through the syllabus today, okay? Great. That sounds great.”

            “Uh-oh, Pidge made it weird,” Lance sing-songs under his breath.

            “It was already weird,” she grumps.

…

            Keith finally gives up and wanders downstairs. Their new apartment is actually the third floor of a remodeled Victorian mansion from the turn of the century that somehow managed to avoid being either bulldozed or registered as a historic landmark. It might have something to do with the fact that the current occupants (prior to Keith and Shiro’s arrival) are a witch and her familiar, but that’s hardly common knowledge.

            Allura and Coran run a little store out of the bottom floor that doubles as a tea/candle/handcrafted knickknacks/fair trade emporium and the local good-witch-and-various-other-benign-magical-entities supply depot. Keith secretly loves it there. Heavy curtains drape the windows and tapestries line the walls, the shop is dim and warm and always smells good thanks to the subtle incense Allura leaves gently burning at the cash register. Keith’s enhanced senses make just living in the world a trial sometimes; Allura’s place is a relief to his beleaguered nose and ears. Wooden shelves loaded down with glass jars full of loose-leaf tea line the wall behind the register and the blend of scents is a blessing.

            He makes his way down the stairs, past Allura and Coran’s apartments on the second floor to the shop’s backroom where the more mystical inventory is kept…and stumbles across Coran, in cat form, asleep on the sorting counter. He’s wearing bandages and…Keith’s nostrils flare, smells like blood and…vampire.

            Keith feels something flicker under his skin, a subtle push-pull of muscle and tendon and wonders if his eyes have flashed yellow. He feels the prickle of fangs pressing into his lower lip and clenches his jaw, willing the change away.

            “Coran?” he forces out when he’s sure he’s gotten his features under control again, “Coran?”

            The orange tabby flicks an ear before raising his head. He blinks blue eyes slowly as he wakes, slowly stretching, whiskers twitching as a motion pulls at strained muscles. “Hello my boy, ouch, that one got me rather good, ah, that’s a doozy, yes, well there, better just sit down, moving’s not all it’s cracked up to be is, it?” he resettles, sitting upright this time with his tail curled around his paws, “Nice to see you up and about. You sleep like the dead, you do.”

            Keith’s lips twitch, “Very funny.”

            “I rather thought so,” the cat preens, “Now, what can I do for you? Looking for Allura?”

            “No, just…” he shrugs, “Bored.”

            “Being immortal not all it’s cracked up to be?” the cat tips its head to the side sympathetically, “An extended lifespan does take some getting used to,” he chuckles, “I should know.”

            “More like I don’t really know what to do with myself during the day. It’s not like I can go to school. I guess I could enroll in some online classes but it…doesn’t seem worth it.”

            Coran hums sympathetically, “Well, if it’ll cheer you up, I fought a vampire last night. Never fear, I left enough of him behind for you to take a swing at tonight.” He swipes a paw through the air like he’s boxing an invisible opponent, “Caught him following some poor student home. But he’s been taught a sound lesson. No one messes with Sunnydale, not while Coran is on patrol, ouch,” he winces after a too-enthusiastic swipe of the paw, “did claw me up a bit, though. You vampires are tough customers.”

            “I’d rather you not lump me in with them, if it’s all the same to you.”

            “Fair enough. Now, if you’re lacking for entertainment, you could always help me mix these remedies. I’m not quite up to my usual shapeshifting tricks quite yet, I’m afraid.”

            “Is that why you’re a cat right now instead of…?”

            “My usual charming and handsome self? Why yes, how’d you ever guess?”

            Keith isn’t sure if the question was facetious or not so he keeps his mouth shut.

            “Anyway, yes, it takes quite a lot of energy, you know, changing a whole body like that. Breaking the laws of physics isn’t a stroll in the park. Oh no. So I’m stuck here, basically the magical entity equivalent of ‘power-save mode’ until further notice. Unfortunately, this body doesn’t come with opposable thumbs or a great deal of height. So that’s where you come in. I’ll sit here and instruct you and you’ll gather the proper herbs and things from there,” he gestures with his tail to what looks like an enormous antique card catalogue, each drawer with a label with an herb’s name written on it in Allura’s neat cursive, “and put the ingredients in little bundles, with these,” the tail flicks over to a pile of empty sachets on the counter, “per my instructions of course.”

            Keith hesitates, “Wouldn’t my…me-ness…taint them? Aren’t they supposed to be remedies?”

            Coran huffs, “It doesn’t matter who puts them together, what matters is intention! As long as the maker’s intentions are pure, the product will be pure. In the end they’re just dried leaves and things. Part of the magic is the energy put into them. You could make the exact same thing with hate in you hands and while it’d technically still serve the same purposed when all’s said and done the end result would be negative. Do you follow?”

            Keith nods.

            “So get over here and let me borrow your opposable thumbs. Here, bend down first.”

            Keith does it because years of being bossed around by both his mom, his big brother, and the Watcher’s Council ( _fuck those guys,_ a voice hisses in the back of his head and Red snarls agreement… no, no, have to keep a handle on hateful thoughts, have to have pure intentions) have trained him too well apparently, and he bends down by the counter, low enough for Coran to launch himself into the hood of his sweatshirt. Keith yelps in surprise as the cat arranges himself in the hood hooking his paws on Keith’s shoulder to peer over and forward.

            “Comfortable?” Keith asks dryly.

            “Very,” the cat says, pleased and jovial, “Now, onward, come along, no slacking.”

…

            In the student common area after school Lance flops over and groans into his open world history textbook. “That’s it, I’m dead.”

            Hunk pats his shoulder, “Come on, buddy, it’s just the first day. You can’t die now.”

            “Yeah, who would fight the Joker then?” Pidge apparently has not forgotten this morning’s superpowers conversation.

            “That’s Batman, Pidge,” Hunk reminds her, “Batman fights the Joker.”

            “And Batman doesn’t have any powers other than supernatural richness,” Lance points out, face still pressed into his textbook’s slippery pages (how is it that textbooks always feel the same – kind of slippery and sticky at the same time? Lance doesn’t know, but it feels super gross), “That’s what makes him Batman.”

            He can’t see Pidge but he’s pretty sure she’s rolling her eyes at him, “Whatever, Superboy.”

            “Not a clone, either, Pidgey.”

            “Wait, Superboy’s a thing? I was just trying to make a joke.”

            “You know, for an avowed nerd, you’re really bad at this comic book thing,” Hunk remarks reflectively.

            She snorts and seems to be going for some kind of snarky response when a new voice interrupts them.

            “Hello there, I don’t suppose you could tell me where the teacher’s lounge is?”

            Lance’s head snaps up so quickly he’s a little surprised he doesn’t break something. Standing next to their table is their Home Ec teacher, looking like a Greek god who’s crashed to earth and isn’t quite caught up on current events yet. Also confused. There’s a little confusion there too.

            “How do you not know where the teacher’s lounge is?” Pidge asks bluntly because Pidge has all the tact of a blow to the head sometimes. Admittedly, Lance can be the same way, but he’s more of a babble-his-way-into-a-corner tactless.

            “Ah, it’s only my second day and I’ve gotten lost three times,” Mr. Home Ec says awkwardly. He’s carrying a pile of old leather-bound books that look about two seconds away from crumbling into dust before their very eyes. Lance didn’t think Home Ec was the kind of class that required a whole lot of moldy-oldy book-reading. Maybe the dude’s just weird. Lance is hoping he’s just weird. Lance does not want to read books older than the printing press. Lance would be very happy to have a class with no assigned reading at all. The only class he’s got without a textbook of some kind right now is gym. And gym involves getting hit in the face repeatedly with airborne objects of various sizes.

            “That sucks, man,” Hunk says, then pauses, realizes he just said ‘sucks’ to a teacher, “Uh, I mean, that’s unfortunate, sir. Um.”

            Mr. Home-Ec laughs. He’s still wearing the rubber gloves he’d had on for class. He must have forgotten to take them off or something. “Yeah, it does suck. But really, teacher’s lounge?”

            “That way,” Lance says, “Just take a right at the freaky bust and head straight down the hallway with the creepy murals.”

            “Freaky bust?”

            “It’s missing its nose and kind of splattered with reddish brown paint,” Pidge explains, “something went wrong with the senior prank last year or something.”

            “Or someone threw it at the monster that lives in the basement,” Lance says in his spookiest voice.

            “The monster’s not real,” Hunk protests, but his voice shakes slightly. He’s still a little freaked out by the legend of the basement monster.

            “Monster?” the Home Ec teacher looks intrigued. A little disturbingly intrigued, really. “Are…supernatural occurrences common here?”

            Lance rolls his eyes, “No, dude, the monster’s made-up. Unless you’re _Hunk_ and still think it’s _real_.”

            “Hey, I’m just saying, some people went missing last year and they were never found.”

            “Pssh, they ran away from home, everyone says so,” Lance scoffs.

            Pidge sighs and pushes her glasses up her nose, “The basement monster story started up a few years ago when they closed the basement because the last fire code compliance inspection found asbestos down there. It’s just teenagers being dumb.”

            “I still think there’s a chance the basement monster is real,” Hunk protests.

            “That’s because you’re a scaredy-cat,” Lance elbows his best friend lightly, “There’s no way there’s actually a basement monster.”

            “Just an unusually high death-and-disappearance rate!” Hunk yelps.

            “But that’s for the whole town, not just the high school,” Pidge points out.

            “High death and disappearance rate?” Oh, yeah, the Home Ec teacher is new in town.

            “Oh, but don’t worry, dude, it’s fine. Just…you know…crime and weird accidents. You should be totally fine,” Lance hastens to reassure the guy…who does not look like he needs to be reassured. He actually looks thoughtful, like their ramblings just proved a hypothesis he wanted to test.

            “Yes…the data would be consistent…it makes sense…” he suddenly seems to remember they’re there, “Oh, yes, well, thank you for the directions. And let me know if you hear any more stories about a ‘basement monster’ or what-have-you.”

            “Sure, dude,” Lance says as the Home Ec teacher scuttles away. The instant he’s out of earshot Lance turns back to his friends, “Okay, is it just me or is that dude seriously weird?”

            “Seriously,” Pidge nods in agreement.

…

            “Any luck finding the new Slayer?” Keith calls from the backroom when he hears Shiro come through the shop’s door.

            “No, and you shouldn’t yell questions like that in the shop,” his brother says, shouldering his way into the prep room, “What if it wasn’t me? Or there were other people here?”

            “The shop’s empty, and I know how you smell,” Keith says dismissively; then winces. Shiro doesn’t like reminders of Keith’s vampire-ness.

            “Oh,” Shiro chuckles awkwardly, “right.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Hello, can I help you - ?” Allura asks, summoned from her office by the jingle of the bell above the shop door, “Oh, hello, any luck with this Slayer business?”

            Shiro sighs, and sinks into the chair Allura offers him. “No, none at all. It could be any of them.”  

            Allura presses her lips together, “Well you have time.”

            “Not enough,” Shiro says resignedly, “The more time it takes to find them the more time they’re wandering around without training, vulnerable.”

            “I could try scrying for them again?” Allura offers, tucking her long hair behind her ears. Her bracelets jingle softly, the crystals around her neck swaying with every move she makes. She looks every inch the modern witch with her batik silk blouse and worn jeans overlaid with a maroon leather jacket. The crystals in her jewelry seem to glow slightly in the back room’s dim light.

            “No, it’ll just give you another migraine,” Shiro tells her, “Thank you for the offer.” He runs a hand down his face and sighs, “I hate waiting for a sign. All the Watchers’ Council was able to tell me was that the new Slayer would be Called in Sunnydale,” he huffs in irritation, “Vampires won’t be waiting for a sign, they’ll be able to smell the new Slayer the second they’re close enough. The new Slayer could be vamp food before we even know who they are.”

            “Our local bloodletters are getting a bit antsy of late,” Coran, still a cat, Shiro notes, comments from where he’s curled up in Keith’s hood, “Had to chase one off last night. Stalking a student, bold as you please, right in the middle of the sidewalk.”

            “Great, bold vampires, that’s the last thing we need,” Shiro groans while Allura hums in agreement.

            “I think we’re overlooking the obvious solution here,” Keith comments from the counter where he’s still mechanically mixing herbs.  
            “Yes, Keith?” Allura asks. She’s careful with him, Keith notes, her demeanor always shifting a bit when she addresses him. He doesn’t think she’s afraid of him, not really. She doesn’t even dislike him. But just like he can sense her power, like a magnet, humming with magic energy in the periphery of his senses, he’s sure she can sense him. They’re opposing forces on the supernatural spectrum, designed to repel each other. Red growls uneasily in the back of his head every time her eyes land on him. Them. It’s hard to tell where he ends and the demon that shares his body begins sometimes.

            “I’m a vampire. I should be able to sense a Slayer, right? I’ll go out tonight, lurk around some high school hangouts, see if I can track them.”

            “Are you sure?” Shiro is looking at him with and just the slightest bit of wariness. It makes Keith’s skin crawl. He resists the urge to snarl at his brother. “All those people around, it won’t be too much for you?”

            “I think I can resist the urge to chomp on random passer-by, Shiro.” Keith says acidly before he can stop himself. He tries not to take some pleasure in the stricken look that flits across his brother’s face.

            It’s not Shiro’s fault he’s a monster now.

            “That wasn’t what I meant,” Shiro says softly, “Just, your senses are so raw, all those people…I don’t want you to get overwhelmed.”

            Keith huffs, “I’ll be fine. I planned on patrolling anyway. Coran wasn’t able to finish off the vamp he ran into last night.”

            “Are you – ”

            “For the last damn time, Shiro, I’m sure. I’ve been staking vamps since I was ten years old. What, you think I’m gonna be any nicer to them now that I’m one of them?”

            Shiro sighs, “No, I’m sorry. Just…be safe, okay?”

            Keith smiles, but it’s a little bitter, “I’ll be fine. I’m practically immortal now. Nothing can touch me.”

…

            “This is a terrible idea,” Pidge comments from where she’s sprawled, tiny body taking up as much real estate possible on their favorite couch at the Bronze.

            “Move over Pidge-otto,” Lance says, nudging her feet out of the way and dropping down on the vacated cushion, making up for the forced foot-relocation by passing her a drink, “And this is a great idea. What better way to celebrate the first day of school than by hanging out in our favorite underage nightclub?”

            “Uh, maybe doing homework?”   
            “Bo-ring,” Lance sing-songs, “this is way cooler. And anyway, this way we can watch Hunk watch Shay’s band play.” He tilts his head over to the stage where Shay Balmera and Operation Geode are strumming their way through their set. Shay’s on keyboard and she keeps sneaking glances through her bangs at Hunk, who waves at her from behind the bar.

            “You just like bugging Hunk at work. And procrastinating.”

            “Oh totally,” Lance agrees, sipping his own beverage. He tosses another glance at the dance floor and winces. “Shit.”

            “What?”

            “Nyma’s here.”

            “Oh, shit.”

            And there she was, writhing on the dance floor with her new, much-older boyfriend.

            “Gross,” Pidge says, frowning, “Want me to kick her ass for you?”

            “Uh, no?” Lance says, “Mostly because you have actually no advantages in a fist-fight other than pure rage.”

            “Hey, rage can take you far.”

            “Sure it can, Pidgey-pie, but it’s not really going to help here.”

            She rolls her eyes, “That’s what you think.” A few minutes into Operation Geode’s next song Pidge kicks his shoulder lightly, “Hey, you know what you need. A rebound.”

            “Have you been watching television again?”

            “What? You keep blabbering about how ‘Friends’ is full of life-lessons or some shit. Anyway, ten out of ten sitcoms agree, you need a rebound to get over your shitty breakup.”

            “Come on, Pidge, she and I broke up three months ago. I’m fine.”

            “Then you need a new significant other. Fill the void, Lance.”

            “I’m not a guest on Dr. Phil, I don’t have voids that need filling – and ew, that starts to sound gross when you put it like that.”

            She sighs, “Ugh, this is why I don’t give life advice. I’m bad at it and you’re ungrateful. Just…I don’t know, hit on a random stranger.”

            Lance actually laughs at that, “Oh my god, that is the opposite of good advice.”

            Pidge huffs and kicks him again, “You’ve just been kind of weird lately. I don’t know how to deal with a Lance that doesn’t hit on everything that moves.”

            “Maybe I’ve matured.”

            “And maybe you’ve been staring at the guy in the red leather jacket all night.”

            Lance feels all the blood rush to his face at once, “Have not.”

            “Have too. You’ve been ogling broody-mc-broodface in the corner since we got here.”

            Lance folds his arms in a manner not at all reminiscent of a kindergartener deprived of naptime, “So what? He’s aesthetically pleasing.”

            “Wow, such vocabulary, so words. Go talk to him. Not everyone’s going to steal your bike and sell it on Ebay.”

            “Ah, treasured memories with the ex,” Lance says sarcastically, “Maybe I don’t want to talk to him. Maybe I just want to admire his very symmetrical face and terrible haircut from a distance.”

            “Well, you’re losing your chance to do even that, you wuss.”

            “What?”

            She nods over to the corner previously occupied by the brooder in the leather jacket, “I think he’s leaving.”

            “Shit,” Lance jumps up to run after him.

            Pidge shakes her head, “Boys.”

…

            Keith can feel the Slayer, some sixth sense survival instinct telling him they’re near. (or, more accurately, Red wailing in the back of his head to kill something already and run, basically an ongoing internal siren screaming ‘danger, danger, refuel, danger, danger, eat something and run, danger, danger’). But surrounded by teenagers (this place is like a blow to the head, a sea of heavy hormone-scent and sweat-scent and the tiniest trace of blood-scent teasing at the periphery of his mind) he has no way of pinning them down.

            Well this is a dead end.

            And then something happens. Like a guitar chord strummed the wrong way in his brain, he catches the slightest whiff of…

            _Vampire._

_Kill them, kill them, kill them,_ Red growls, for once echoing Keith’s sentiments exactly. But while Red wants to kill the interloper invading their hunting ground, Keith wants to kill the monster he’s spent his whole life fighting.

            Eh, same difference.

            He watches the crowd, catching the moment when the vampire – a girl, pretty in a slightly anachronistic way, he wonders how old she is, if she’s just given up on keeping up on the latest fashions or is just really wedded to the 70s flower-child look. She doesn’t look dangerous but Keith can smell the predator underneath her skin. The guy she’s grinding on doesn’t seem to sense anything amiss, letting her pull him off the dance floor, a dopey smile on his face. She’s out of his league and he knows it.

            Keith waits until they’re out the door before slipping out behind them, following the scent of bloodlust and good old-fashioned regular lust.

…

            Lance is not really expecting what he walks into.

            Namely, a girl in a long, loose floral skirt wrapped around some guy (Lance is pretty sure he knows him…Eric, he thinks, they had geometry together last year), her fingers buried in his hair as she wrenches his head to the side and goes for his jugular with…are those fangs? What the fuck?

            “Hey!” Lance runs towards them. He isn’t very familiar with this sort of situation but he figures nonconsensual blood-sucking is pretty much on par with other nonconsensual activities in terms of badness. And then he’s forced himself between the two of them, shoving the flower-child girl back with a forceful hand to the stomach, pushing Probably-Eric in the other direction. Actually, he sends Eric sprawling into a pile of wooden pallets, sending them all crashing down on top of the poor guy. The probably-a-vampire girl goes flying in the other direction, (suck it, Pidge, Lance totally has super-strength!) crashing into the alley wall.

            Lance is just turning around, holding a hand out to his classmate, “Eric, man; are you okay?” when the probably-a-vampire is up with a snarl and coming towards him at frankly disturbing speeds.

            Lance really doesn’t want to die right after finding out vampires are real and he definitely has superpowers. That’s a whole new level of lame he is not prepared to deal with.

            And then the night gets _even weirder_ when out of nowhere, a snarling red blur charges out and tackles the vampire-girl. They go down in a tangle of limbs and growling that sounds more like the soundtrack to a nature documentary than something that has any business coming out of a human-like throat.

            Lance decides he’s probably better off not messing with that fiasco and turns his attention back to Eric, who’s sitting up and shaking his head groggily.

            “Hey, dude, can you stand?”

            “What the fuck is happening? Who - ? Lance? What the fuck…” Eric is apparently struggling with the whole ‘reality’ thing at the moment, “I was out here with a girl…a girl…holy fuck she had fangs! And she was going to bite me! Oh my god!”

            So Eric isn’t the brightest crayon in the box. “Yeah, surprise, vampires are real!” Lance laughs nervously, “Now get up and run,” he hauls Eric to his feet.

            “But…should I…call 911 or something?” Eric asks weakly.

            “I really don’t think that’s going to help, bro,” Lance says, shooting a look over to where the girl-vampire and the hot guy in the red leather jacket are whaling on each other, “And I think Red over there’s got it covered.”

            Red goes flying when girl-vamp throws him into an alley wall.

            “Okay, I spoke too soon. Run!”

            Eric runs without trying to convince Lance to follow him because nothing brings out the inner asshole in people like near-death experiences.

            Lance turns back around to see girl-vamp stalking towards him.

            “Heeeey, nice to meet you, Lady Vamp, I’m Lance. I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he babbles as he slowly backs away.

            She doesn’t respond, just jumps for his throat at the exact moment Lance hits one of the fallen wooden pallets and falls on his ass. She’s on top of him then, her snapping fangs inches from his throat, his legs, sandwiched between them, the only thing keeping her from tearing into his neck. Remembering his freakish strength from earlier, Lance kicks at her (he’d like to say he did this with some snappy repartee or at least a manly yell, but there was definitely a whimper involved there). Luckily, superstrength is not apparently dependent on cool one-liners because she still goes flying.

            Lance struggles to his feet in time to see her crash into Red Jacket, who’s on his feet again. Red Jacket kicks her feet out from under her and snaps a kick to her face once she’s on the ground. “Stake her!” he yells at – oh, he’s yelling at Lance.

            “Uh? What?”

            She jumps to her feet and goes for Red Jacket, who backhands her but doesn’t avoid taking a punch to the stomach. “STAKE. HER.”

            “WITH WHAT.”

            “WOOD.”

            She has Red Jacket in a headlock, which he turns around by flipping her over his shoulder and kicking her again. She grabs his leg and throws him to the ground and they’re back to grappling again.

            Lance looks around. Wood…Oh. Duh. He’s surrounded by the shattered remnants of _wooden_ loading pallets. He grabs a piece of one that looks sharp enough. Okay…how did they do this in the movies?

            “GO FOR THE HEART,” Red Jacket yells at him, kicking she-vamp away. She crashes into a wall and lies there, stunned.

            Lance runs over and, with only a minimum of whimpering hesitation, plunges the chunk of wood into her back. Nothing happens. Until she’s snarling with rage and rolling to her feet. “Not the heart, not the heart, not the heart,” Lance mutters as he scampers away from her.

            Suddenly Red Jacket is up again, behind her as she comes towards Lance. Red Jacket grabs the chunk of wood and twists it up and in. She-vamp disappears in a cloud of dust.

            Vampire gone, Lance finds himself staring at Red Jacket, who still clutches the makeshift stake.

            “What…” Lance pants, “Just happened?”

            Red Jacket just stares at him, unimpressed, “ _You’re_ the Slayer?”

            “The what?”

            “Oh my god, I hate this job already,” Red Jacket mutters, tossing the surrogate stake aside.

            “Did you guys just kill a fucking _vampire_?” Pidge’s voice sounds from the doorway and Lance is pretty sure he’d like to pass out now, thanks.

            He settles for just sitting down really abruptly and burying his face in his hands, “What the fuck is _happening_?”

…

            Hunk does not take it well when his friends and a random stranger walk behind the bar.

            “Seriously, guys, you can’t be back here,” he starts, going to shoo them off.

            “Lance killed a vampire!” Pidge exclaims, quickly overruled by the random stranger saying “ _I_ killed the vampire,” and Lance hissing, “Can we not talk about vampires where everyone can hear us?”

            “What’s going on?” Hunk asks, not sure he wants to know the answer, “if this is a prank, _again_ , it’s really not funny, guys. Also, who are you?”

            “Keith,” random stranger says, eyes scanning the room as if searching for threats.

            “It’s not a joke,” Pidge begins, soon drowned out by Lance saying, “Oh my god, Hunk, _weird shit_ is happening, man, I cannot deal.”

            Hunk is very glad his shift is over in five minutes. “Okay, guys, you’ve got to go, I’ll deal with your crisis when my shift ends. But for now, scoot.”  

…

            Shiro is not really expecting Keith to kick the shop door open (the jingle-bell above the lintel giving a distressed little tinkle as he does so) yelling for him, but here they are.

            “Shiro! SHIRO! Shiro, I have the Slayer for you!”

            Shiro sighs and puts a bookmark in his book and comes downstairs, passing Allura (wrapped in a pink silk bathrobe and wearing a flowing pale blue nightgown that contrasts gorgeously with her brown skin) on the steps. “Keith, what is it?” She calls, coming around the corner and turning on the shop’s lights as she goes, Shiro on her heels.

            Keith stands, arms folded, in the middle of the shop, a trio of teenagers lined up uncertainly behind him. “Special delivery,” he says dryly. He’s a bit scuffed up, Shiro notices, hair a mess, face and leather jacket smudged with dirt. Shiro wonders if he’s been in a fight.

            “Uh, hello Keith’s friends,” Allura says, wrapping her robe more securely around herself, “Can I make you some tea?”

            One of the teenagers, big and broad, wearing a yellow shirt, sighs, “Uh, is it drugged?”

            “If this was a kidnapping you’d be drugged already,” Keith says dryly without turning his head.

            “Keith, other people don’t find kidnapping humor funny,” Shiro sighs.

            “Uh. Is it just me or is that our Home Ec teacher?” the shortest of the teens asks.

            “Hello,” Shiro waves awkwardly.

            “I’ll make some tea,” Allura says decisively, “Any requests?”

            “Something without caffeine maybe?” the big guy suggests, “I think Lance is twitching.”

            “IS NO ONE ALARMED BY THIS NIGHT’S EVENTS?” the third teen, who must be Lance, demands.

            “You fought a vampire, badly. I saved your ass. Calm down,” Keith says flatly.

            “ _Keith_ ,” Shiro says, not sure what exactly is happening but sure that he did not raise his baby brother to be this rude, “Be nice.”

            Keith narrows his eyes at him.

            “Did you eat dinner?” Keith always got meaner when he was hungry, Shiro remembers, gut twisting. Why would that change now that he wasn’t completely human?

            Keith glares at him but deflates somewhat when confronted with Shiro’s raised eyebrow. “No,” he mutters at his feet.

            “Allura, could you get something for Keith?” Shiro calls over his shoulder to Allura, who’s fussing with the teakettle behind the shop’s counter.

            “Oh, yes, I’ll just grab something from the kitchenette while this is heating up.”

            “Remember to microwave it.”

            “Certainly.” Teakettle settled she bustles off, disappearing behind the curtain separating the shop from the backroom.

            Allura gone, they all just stare at each other.

            The shortest teenager clears her throat, Shiro’s pretty sure her name was listed as…something Holt on the class roster. These were the kids who directed him to the teacher’s lounge earlier. What a coincidence. “So…Lance killed a vampire.”

            “ _I_ killed the vampire,” Keith huffs.

            “Okay, Lance _fought_ a vampire. And now we’re here.”

            “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?” Presumably-Lance yelps from where he’s standing; huddled in his jacket. He looks wrecked, scuffed up much like Keith but without his equanimity.

            “That one is the new Slayer,” Keith says, sounding bored.

            “Why are the others here, then?” Shiro asks his brother.

            “What’s a Slayer?” the big guy demands.

            “I’m still stuck on the vampires,” the short one says, “How is that even possible?”

            “Easy,” Keith answers, “a vampire drinks your blood, makes your drink theirs, you die, the piece of the demon the vampire put in you germinates like a seed and presto, you’ve got a new killing machine.”

            “That sounds really fake.”

            Keith shrugs.

            Shiro sighs, “There’s a bit more to it than that. There’s some history and a much more in-depth explanation, although, yes, there are some gaps in our knowledge of how vampirism actually _works._ ”

            “What’s a Slayer?” big guy demands again, voice rising in pitch.

            “WHAT IS GOING ON?” Lance follows this up, like a Greek chorus of distressed confusion.

            And of course the teakettle starts screaming. Allura re-enters, passing off a steaming mug of blood to Keith who looks at it morosely like a child told to eat their lima beans. Allura measures something loose-leaf and herbal into the strainer in the pot and pours in the hot water, setting it aside to steep. That done she folds her arms on the counter and looks around the room, “What did I miss?”

            “I was just about to explain the Slayer. And vampires,” Shiro says wryly.

            “Oh, not much then.”

            “No, not much.”

…

            “Wait, wait, wait, back up,” Lance says later, when they’re all settled in Allura’s living room, holding mugs of tea and…whatever Keith’s drinking. It must be soup or something. Whatever it is, it smells disgusting. “I’m the Chosen One to kill vampires?”

            “A Chosen One, yes,” Mr. Shirogane or Shiro as he’s asking them to call him, explains (and yes, Lance is still struggling with the concept that their _Home Ec teacher_ is some kind of vampire expert), “There are many Slayers. It’s a bit unrealistic to expect one person to defend all of humanity. The world’s too big for that. But yes, you’re a Chosen One. Every time a Slayer dies a new one is Chosen to take their place.”

            “But how do you _know_?”

            Shiro shrugs, “A Slayer died this summer. All the signs pointed to her heir appearing here, in Sunnydale.”

            “But how do you know it’s _me_? I’m…I’m actually a terrible choice. Guys, tell them I’m a terrible choice.”

            “You can’t be a terrible choice, otherwise you wouldn’t have been Chosen,” Shiro sighs tiredly.

            “Then tell whoever does this Choosing to un-Choose, Choose again, I don’t care! I don’t want to fight vampires!”

            “That’s not how it works,” Shiro tries to explain.

            “Either you let Shiro train you and you do your job as Slayer,” Keith’s voice cuts in, “Or the vampires come looking for you and you fight them until you eventually lose and die.”

            Lance swallows convulsively, “But…” his voice is small, “I don’t want to…” He’s too young for this, he thinks, he’s not ready to have to fight for his life against creatures that want to suck his blood.

            “Too bad.”

            “Keith,” Shiro’s voice is gentle but firm, “Don’t be too hard on him. It’s a lot to take in.”

            “How is any of this even _possible_?” Pidge demands, “People don’t just rise from the dead and go on a killing spree! The cells begin to deteriorate the minute oxygen stops flowing to the brain. It’s not scientifically possible for undead monsters to roam around.”

            “I’m afraid you’ll find quite a lot is possible once magic gets involved,” the beautiful woman with the tea says softly from where she sits beside Shiro.

            “Magic is just science that hasn’t been explained!” Pidge insists stubbornly.

            “Mr. Shiro,” Hunk’s soft voice cuts through Pidge’s existential crisis, “Is Lance going to die?”

            A cold hand seizes Lance’s throat. He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want any of this.

            “Not if I can help it,” Shiro says, but his face is grim. “Lance, you have a lot of training ahead of you.”

            Lance laughs weakly, “Great, more homework.”

            “We’ll help you, dude,” Hunk says, his hand big and warm on Lance’s shoulder. God, Lance really wants a hug.

            Pidge huffs, “Yeah, we’re with you all the way. Scientifically impossible monsters and all.”

            Lance feels a little better at that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance hits the training mat with a painful thud and a smothered whimper-groan. “You know,” he pants, “In 80s movies they just training-montage right past the ‘my everything hurts and my soul wants to escape it’s flesh-prison’ bits.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL THE SUPPORT!!! you guys are awesome
> 
> Buffy the Vampire Slayer got taken off Netflix and I am so disappointed. So here I am, back again with more of this silliness. (really I have so many ideas for this 'verse, this is just the beginning)
> 
> For any Buffy fans out there, I've tweaked the lore here a bit to suit my own purposes as usual, so don't be surprised if things come up that weren't in the show.

**Chapter 2**

            Lance hits the training mat with a painful _thud_ and a smothered whimper-groan. “You know,” he pants, “In 80s movies they just training-montage right past the ‘my everything hurts and my soul wants to escape it’s flesh-prison’ bits.”

            Keith gives him a bland look, “You’re a Slayer. You’re not even bruised.”

            “Hey,” Lance quips as he attempts to flop-roll to his feet, flails a bit and finally decides that he’s just going stay on this nice cushy mat for the time being, “My mama always told me; just because I _can_ do something doesn’t mean I _should_. Like, I can set my school on fire…but I’m not going to. I _can_ let you kick the crap out of me and not bruise…but I shouldn’t.”

            “Exactly,” Keith huffs like Lance is finally catching on to the big secret of this not-so-montage-y training montage, “You’re supposed to _stop_ me from kicking the crap out of you.”

            Lance huffs, “Which I could do if you’d pause in the ninja-kicking-Lance department and start in the teaching-Lance-to-ninja-kick-vampires department.”

            This earns him another blank stare, “I don’t ninja-kick things. I just kick them.”

            Lance squints at him, “Are you for real right now or are you messing with me?”

            Keith throws his hands up in the air, “I give up. SHIRO!”

            “KEITH, THE SLAYER HAD BETTER BE IN ONE PIECE OR SO HELP ME, GOD I WILL HIDE GARLIC IN ALL YOUR CLOTHING,” Shiro’s voice drifts up the stairs to their weird little attic training room.

            Lance hasn’t figured out the garlic thing yet, but it’s Shiro’s go-to threat for whenever Keith gets out of line. Maybe Keith really hates the smell or something?

            Just one more thing to add to the long list of Weird Stuff About Keith.

“Shiro! Get this human out of my face before I maim it.” Keith is shooting him irritated looks…which are really just the same look he always wears, just directed specifically at Lance.

            “Him, Keith. I know you know about pronouns.” Shiro sounds like he’s torn between amused and exasperated. Lance flops back onto the training mat in a tired puddle.

            “Shiro, get this human out of my face before I maim HIM.”

            “Keith, what have I told you about maiming?”

            “No maiming in the house?”

            “No maiming whatsoever. It’s rude.”

            Oh, well, as long as they have _rules_ about maiming…who is Lance kidding, vampires are real and he’s surrounded by crazy people. He’s also 50% sure his home ec teacher/Watcher doesn’t actually know how to cook anything any more involved than ramen.

            “But he’s really annoying,” Keith growls, poking Lance with his toe, “Get up, we’re not done training.

            “Keith, play nice.”

            “I’m trying!” Keith huffs, voice cracking a tiny bit at the end. Lance sneaks a glance up at him and is surprised to see a flicker of something new cross his face. An expression other than utter exasperation. How novel.

            Lance is temporarily struck with the absolutely _insane_ notion that maybe…Keith…is trying his best? It’s almost enough to make Lance feel bad for baiting him. Almost.

            “Oh for the love of – KEITH,” and there’s the sound of Shiro’s feet thumping against the stairs, “KEITH, THAT SLAYER HAD BETTER BE IN ONE PIECE,” he says as he approaches, sticking his head around the corner. “Good, no one’s bleeding.”

            “Yet,” Keith growls.

            Shiro shakes his head like Keith’s surliness is endearing, like a puppy growling at the mailman. “Maybe you two should go on patrol.”

            Keith’s jaw literally drops, “Shiro, he’s not ready for patrol!”

            “Aww, so nice to hear you care,” Lance quips acidly from where he’s still lying on the training mat, staring at the eaves of the house.  

            Keith actually growls at that, “You, be quiet,” he snaps before turning back to Shiro, “He’s not ready, Shiro. He can’t even land a hit on me. They’ll eat him alive out there. Literally.”

            Shiro hums thoughtfully, “I think some hands-on experience would do you both some good. Burn off some of your pent-up energy, Keith, and give Lance some experience in the real world.”

            “The real world of _vampire slaying_ ,” Lance says, “Vampire. Slaying.” They both stare at him like he’s just said the sky is blue and the grass is green and water is wet. “Just trying to keep this crazytrain in perspective.”

            Shiro’s face actually drops into an indulgent smile at that. What a weirdo. Nice, but kind of weirdo. “Sorry, Lance. It’s hard to remember that this isn’t normal for most people sometimes.”

            “Hard to forget?” Lance asks, incredulous.

            “Yes,” Shiro explains patiently. Why can’t Shiro be the one teaching him the ways of the ass-kicking? Shiro seems like he’d be a good teacher. Hell, Lance knows he’s a good teacher. Despite having the domestic skills of a three-legged giraffe, Shiro’s home ec class is actually, genuinely fun. He’s good at the teaching thing. So why oh why is Keith McGrumpyface Lance’s babysitter? “We grew up with this,” Shiro elaborates, “Hunting vampires is sort of the family business.”

            “You’re a whole family of Watchers?” Lance asks skeptically. He’s still a little fuzzy on the Watcher-Slayer dynamic, honestly. It seems weird that the Watchers Council even exists. A whole group of occult experts who only exist to keep an eye on Slayers and people with the potential to become Slayers (that’s another thing Lance is still fuzzy on, what makes people potential Slayers? What about him, specifically, made the universe go ‘yep, that one, let’s give him freaky powers and sic him on the undead’?)…the whole thing seems super weird.

            “Something like that,” Shiro gives him a small, enigmatic smile and says nothing more on the subject.

            Keith is packing up the training room, despite not apparently being all the way on board Shiro’s live-fire-training-round idea. “Get your stuff, Lance. We’re going patrolling.”

            “Wait, we’re seriously doing that?”

            “I think it will be good for both of you,” Shiro says with a reassuring smile that really isn’t all that reassuring, “And I have some research I need to complete downstairs.”

            “Please tell me you’re done testing garlic knot recipes,” Keith says flatly, “I hate having to hold my breath every time I walk through the kitchen.”

            “No, I’m researching how to use a sewing machine,” Shiro says brightly, “I think I’ve almost got it!”

            “Call me when you sew your sleeve to something on accident. I’ll only laugh a little before I free you.”

            “Ah, true brotherly devotion,” Shiro says dryly, “Be safe on patrol.”

            Keith snorts like this is vastly amusing, but nods. “We will be. Come on, Slayer.”

            Lance grabs his jacket and follows his crabby guide out of the room, feeling like he missed a whole truckload of nuances and subtext in this conversation.

…

            “How goes it?” Allura asks, watching as Shiro squints at the directions for sewing machine use. The machine itself crouches on the table in front of him like a particularly sinister modern art piece. Despite belonging to Allura, and despite her having used it numerous times, she has the funny feeling that it looks far more cantankerous in front of poor hapless Shiro.

            “The sewing machine or training the Slayer?” he asks absently.

            “Both, either.” Allura shrugs, settling in beside him and tapping his shoulder. He offers her his arm and she pushes up the sleeve, revealing the smooth metallic surface and the soft blue glow of the runes etched into it. “How’s the arm?”

            He chuckles, the sound is tight, “That’s a lot of questions.”

            “Hmm,” she places a hand over a rune and presses gently, the glow brightening momentarily at her touch. “You’re stalling.”

            “And as usual, you know all my secrets.”

            “As usual. So?”

            “The arm is what it is. No problems.”

            “Pain?” She traces the lines of power that run through the structure, feeling the hum of magic under the artificial skin.

            “No pain. Sometimes I get a weird tingly…sensation, I guess? Like when your foot goes to sleep. But no pain.”

            “Good, good,” she hums, continuing to trace the lines of power, sensing out any aberrations or disturbances in the flow of energy. The arm’s magic is designed to be self-sustaining. It should be perfectly fine to run forever under its’ own power, no maintenance necessary. But she likes these little checkups anyway.

            “And the sewing machine…I’m getting nowhere with this thing,” he chuckles, “I may have to give up on this one for now.”

            Allura shakes her head, chuckling, “I’m sure Coran would be perfectly willing to help you with it.”

            “Oh, he was,” Shiro assures her, “I just couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was saying.”

            She chuckles, “Yes, that can be a problem with him. He’s funny like that.”

            Shiro sighs, “And the Slayer…I don’t know. I sent him out on patrol with Keith and I can’t decide if I did the right thing or not. It’s been two weeks since he learned what he is and yet none of Keith’s lessons seem to be sinking in. Some of it’s my fault, I should be the one training him, but I’m so swamped trying to settle into this new school and get plugged into this town’s underworld networks and I thought…I thought it would be good for Keith to have a project. I thought having a Slayer to train would keep him busy, make him feel like he’s contributing.”

            “But?”

            “But it seems to just be making him angrier. I don’t know how to help him, Allura.”

            “He’s mourning,” she says, her eyes glinting like polished gems, the eyes of someone who’s seen it all and suffered for it, “He’s mourning your mother and he’s mourning his humanity. You’re both doing your best. And that’s all you can do.”

            “I should be doing more.”

            “You should be sitting still so I can finish this diagnostic.”

            Shiro sighs and subsides into the chair. “I think I’ve been hunting vampires for too long.”

            “Why to do you say that?”

            “These kids…I don’t understand them. I feel a thousand years old when I look at them. How do I get them to see the reality of what we’re facing, what we’re fighting…without breaking their spirits? It’s one thing with Keith, he’s a teenager, but he’s been fighting vamps and demons from the cradle. He’s not exactly your average American high schooler.”

            Allura squeezes his artificial fingers. “I feel the same way sometimes. I see all these new agers and tourists come into my shop and I think, ‘you’re children, children, what on earth are you doing? Do you have any idea what forces you’re toying with here?’ But they’re humans, they play, they experiment. They don’t know to fear the dark.”

            “Not exactly comforting,” Shiro chuckles dryly.

            Allura shrugs, “It’s a struggle, it’s a war, and they’ll never know what we do for them. That was the deal my ancestors made with the first settlers here – my people will fight their wars with the darkness, and they’ll close their eyes and pretend there isn’t anything to fear. And we’ll let them because that kind of luxurious willful ignorance is what we fight for in the end.”

            Shiro crooks a smile at her, “Did you quote _Les Miserables_ there at the beginning?”

            She smirks, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

…

            “So ‘patrolling’ is basically wandering around the graveyard waiting for the undead to try for a little snack?” Lance asks skeptically, “Sounds unnecessarily dangerous.”

            Keith rolls his eyes, “It’s not really. And it’s not always the same graveyard. Sunnydale has twelve, after all. It’s just whatever graveyard has some recent burials.”

            “So, to recap, your main selling point here is variety in graveyards to wander through?”

            Keith shrugs. “Yes.”

            “Dude, you need some non-morbid hobbies, stat.”

            “I work at Allura’s shop during the day.”

            “No necessarily a hobby but it’s at least not death-related so I’ll give you that one.”

            Keith snorts and he actually…looks amused? It’s a surprisingly soft expression. It eases the lines of Keith’s face slightly, so he doesn’t look so dangerous. “Well what do you do for fun, Mr. Expert?” And hey, he didn’t even sound mean there. Well. Kind of a fond, Pidge-type mean.

            “I have a great many rewarding and fulfilling and non-death-related extracurricular activities, I’ll have you know.”     

            “Uh-huh.”

            “Yeah-huh!” that’s it, Lance’s honor as a well-rounded person is at stake! “I’m on swim team and I have my best bros, Pidge and Hunk and there’s always the internet!”

            “I’m pretty sure ‘the internet’ is not a hobby.”

            “Yeah, but the internet has lots of games Pidge and I can get weirdly competitive about.”

            “So basically you’ve lumped your non-hobby in with your other non-hobby and given it an actual activity you could have just called a hobby in the first place?”

            “Well when you say it like that it just sounds dumb.” Lance is kind of expecting a third-grade-style ‘so’s your face’ joke at the end of that, but Keith surprises him by smiling, just a little tiny bit at his dramatics.

            “Sounds nice.” It’s surprisingly…honest-sounding. And non-combative. Weird.

            “Sooo…” Lance wants to keep the conversation going but isn’t sure where to start, “what do you do for fun?”

            Keith blinks, as if he wasn’t expecting the question, which, really, it was kind of easy to see coming. Does this kid know anything about socializing? “Uh. I read. Work in Allura’s shop with Coran…um. Train?”

            Lance shakes his head slowly, “Wow…”

            “I kill vampires sometimes.”

            “That’s it? That’s your life?” Lance doesn’t mean to sound, well, _mean_ , but there’s a sudden lump of utter terror caught in his throat, “Is that going to be _my_ life now?” He doesn’t want that life.

            Keith sighs, “No. No, it’s not.” He sounds suddenly very determined, his jaw is clenching heroically and Lance can almost feel the distance opening up between them again. He’s not sure how to get that little moment of contact back again; he can feel it slipping away between his fingers. “I won’t let it.” Keith’s voice is quiet and hard and far away.

            “Oh.” Lance isn’t sure what to say to that, “Okay. Thanks.”

            “It’s my job.”

            Lance is about to ask what job that is exactly. Is Keith a Slayer too? Is that why he’s so hard on Lance? But then a grave opens up practically beneath their feet and a vampire in a Sunday suit is clawing his way out, snatching at their ankles as he goes.

            “Holy shit!” Lance yelps as Keith shoves him out of the way.

            Keith snaps a kick to the vamp’s face before it’s fully out of the ground, but the creature surprises them both by catching Keith’s ankle and yanking him off his feet. Keith scrambles away as the vampire crawls after him, yelling, “LANCE, STAKE!” as he goes.

            You know in cartoons when the Wiley Coyote’s ghost snaps back into his body after he’s surprised? Lance felt like that. He could swear he could feel the elastic zing of his soul jumping back into its…what did he call it earlier? Flesh-prison. His soul jumping back into its flesh prison.            

            And then he’s moving, running after the vamp as it gets to its feet, one of its grave-dirt-crusted hands wrapping tight around Keith’s neck as it hauls him up with it. _Him_ , the vampire is a man, but it’s hard to think of it as a man when its eyes are glowing sickly yellow in the dark. Keith lands a solid punch to the creature’s sternum, knocking the wind out of dead lungs. The vampire drops him and Keith rolls to his feet in one fluid motion, landing a solid kick to the creature’s knees as he goes.

            The vampire loses his footing, toppling back into Lance, who, muscle memory taking over, wraps an arm around his neck and plunges the stake up and into the creature’s back. The vampire disappears in a rush of dust, leaving Lance coughing in its powdery wake.

            “Oh my god, death tastes disgusting,” Lance tries to spit out as much dust-o-death as possible. He goes to scrape his tongue off with his hands, realizes he’s still holding the stake in one and just gives up with a sad little cough.

            And Keith, Keith is laughing? It’s a soft little chuckle, hard to make out at first. He’s still only halfway to standing, crouched on the ground, one hand keeping his balance as he…laughs. It shouldn’t be this cute, Keith the grumpy asshole who just spent two weeks kicking Lance around the training room, crouched on the ground in a _graveyard_ after they just killed a _vampire_ , nose scrunched up adorably as he laughs and laughs.

            Lance stares at him.

            “Keith?”

            “What?”

            “What are you laughing at, _this isn’t funny_.”

            “Just…your _face_ when the vampire turned to dust…”

            Lance shakes his head as Keith just keeps laughing. “You’re crazy, man.”

            “Your _face_ ,” Keith repeats, and their eyes meet; Keith’s almost glinting purple in the sparse light.

            Lance snorts, Keith’s humor catching, and then they’re both laughing, riotously, uproariously, two crazy people and a dusted vampire in a graveyard in the middle of the night.

            It’s a beautiful thing.

…

            _Keith was five years old when he killed his first vampire. He’d just stepped outside to do…something, he can’t remember now. Maybe put something in the mailbox or grab the paper off the front step? Sometimes Mom would forget to get the paper a few days in a row and the newsprint would pile up like logs in a beaver dam. (Keith had never seen a real beaver dam before, but Shiro had lots of books with pictures in them.)_

_So Keith was outside after dark, where and when Mom always told him to never be. The vampire came out of nowhere. The vamp must have been very young or very hungry, because he was clumsy and fumbling, grabbing at little Keith, crabbed, claw-like fingers catching on the boy’s clothes as he scrambled away, screaming for his mom and Shiro._

_The fence had been a lucky break._

_The house was old and the fence in ill repair, the pickets splintered and split in places. Keith, scampering away, made a break for the sidewalk, ducking under the crooked fence and dodging away from the vampire’s snatching hands._

_The recent rainfall was his second lucky break._

_The vampire, slipping and sliding in the soggy sod, pitched forward, impaling himself on the fractured fence. The makeshift stakes didn’t hit the creature’s heart but they and gravity did keep him pinned like a butterfly on a card. Keith, remembering everything his mother had taught him, grabbed one of his colored pencils from where he’d stuffed them in the pocket of his hoodie and, aiming precisely, jabbed it into the creature’s heart._

_It vanished in a cloud of dust, leaving Keith coughing and struggling to scrape off the thick layer of vampire ash that descended in its wake._

_“Mom! Moooom, I’m covered in vampire crap!”_

_Of course his mother came tearing out of the house then, stake in hand, and, seeing him unhurt, grabbing him in a tight hug and practically carried him inside, fussing at him for being outside after dark._

_But Keith remembered. He’d killed a vampire. He was just like Mom._

…

            “How was patrol?” Shiro asks when Keith returns to the shop a few hours later, “And where’s Lance? Keith. You didn’t intentionally lose the Slayer, did you?”

            “I would never do that,” Keith huffs, rolling his eyes and grabbing a tub of pig’s blood from the fridge. He gives it a wary sniff, decides it’s still fresh enough to eat and pours a generous helping into a mug for the microwave, “I walked him home. It was getting late. He has a curfew.”

            “A curfew?” Shiro cuts off a chuckle before it can fully develop, “What’s that?”

            “I know, right? I thought it was just something from TV. Curfews. Weird.”

            They swap wry glances as the microwave dings and Keith withdraws the mug, dumping a generous dose of cayenne pepper into the red liquid and giving it a stir.

            “See, I always thought you added cayenne pepper to stuff just to keep people from stealing your food. But the chances of me taking your pig’s blood are pretty much nil, so…”

            Keith raises an eyebrow over the rim of his mug, “A bit too soon for the vampire jokes, isn’t it?”

            “Just trying to lighten the mood.”

            Keith pulls a face but there’s a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

            “You look good, kiddo,” Shiro says, apropos of nothing.

            “What brought this on?”

            “You just…look kind of happy, that’s all.”

            Keith rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. “Your Slayer isn’t entirely useless,” he changes the subject abruptly, “He did okay on patrol. You…might have been…right, about the learning-by-doing thing.”

            Shiro smiles at him, “I’m glad he’s getting the hang of it. I’d like you to keep going with him on the night-patrols thought, and we’ll work out a training schedule.”

            “Shiro, he’ll think I’m smothering him. He already doesn’t like me.”

            “I’m sure he doesn’t dislike you, Keith.”

            “I can’t keep babysitting him.”

            “He’s new to this, new to our world. It’s not entirely safe for him yet, Slayer or no. Not everyone grew up killing vampires with elementary school art supplies.” Shiro sounds so gentle, so reasonable. Keith feels a little bad.

            “I don’t want him to hate me more than he already does,” Keith sighs, words quiet as he stares into his mug of blood, brows drawing together. “I don’t know how to talk to him, Shiro. He’s not like…he’s not like the old Slayer.”

            “You don’t have to call her that – ”

            “He’s the new Slayer, she’s the old Slayer, I’m being accurate,” Keith’s voice is sharp, cutting and cold as a blade of ice.

            “Okay, kiddo, okay,” Shiro backs off, hands raised in mock surrender.

            Keith takes another sip of blood and forces himself not to grimace at the taste. The cayenne pepper doesn’t do as much for it as he’d like it to.

            “I…I know I’m not good with him and I’m too harsh and he doesn’t like me, but…” Keith hates how small his voice sounds, how fragile, “But I kind of like him.”

            Shiro’s eyebrows climb up towards his hairline, disappearing under the tuft of white in his bangs, “Like…like-like or…?”

            “Oh for god’s sake, Shiro, we’re not in kindergarten!” Keith snaps, well aware that this is not an answer.

            “I’m just wondering.”

            “Well don’t.”

            “Okay.”

            Silence as Keith sips his blood and then, “I don’t like-like him.”

            “Liar.”

            “Okay, just because I said – ”

            “- You said, last week, and I quote ‘what the fuck is his special power, being attractive? Yeah, that’ll kill a lot of vampires’ and a few days ago, when you were so mad that he kept punching wrong, you yelled, and I quote, ‘BEING CUTE WILL NOT SAVE YOU FROM THE UNDEAD, THIS ISN’T FUCKING TWILIGHT’. It was loud; we could hear you downstairs. Allura choked on her tea.”

            “You are the worst.”

            Shiro grins, “You have a crush.”

            “I think he’s aesthetically pleasing to look at,” Keith says haughtily, “And a mildly interesting person.”

            “You hate 99% of the population. That’s basically an expression of undying devotion,” Shiro is grinning now and Keith sees no other option but kicking him.

            They end up wrestling on the kitchen floor like a couple of children and only stop when Coran, coming in for a post-patrol snack, actually trips over them, knocking over a truly astonishing number of pots and pans on the way down and waking up Allura who puts a silencing jinx on all of them that lasts until dawn.

            It’s not a bad night.

…

            Lance doesn’t usually dream much, and when he does they tend to be vague, more clumps of strong emotions loosely tied together by vague, uncertain visuals than anything else. He rarely remembers more than a feeling come morning.

            But this night is different.

            He’s in a street, a back alley, really, and it’s nighttime somewhere he’s never been. People say all city streets are the same, all city alleys generic, but Lance knows better. This place isn’t one he knows and he’s lived in Sunnydale for as long as he can remember.

            There’s a woman in the alley. She’s wearing black pleather pants and a red leather jacket with white accents – it’s familiar, where does he know that jacket from? She’s surrounded by vampires but doesn’t seem bothered by it at all. She’s making conversation; she’s practically chatting with them, if snarky quips count as chit-chat.

            “All this attention is real flattering, boys, but I’m really not interested. For one thing, y’all need a lot of dental work and this vampire-slaying gig does not come with insurance.”

            She dusts the last one with ease and stands in the middle of a ring of vampiric ash, looking none the worse for wear. She tosses her long dark hair over her shoulder and rolls her neck experimentally a few times before stepping up to the pool of light under the streetlamp where Lance stands. Or thinks he stands. Where the dream has placed him maybe?

            She stops at the edge of the light circle, the yellow, faintly buzzing bulb casting her face in strange lines and shadows. She considers Lance, tipping her head to the side meditatively. Now, in better lighting, he can see the thick streaks of purple and deep blue in her hair and the sharp points of her heavy winged eyeliner, also purple. Her eyes are like whisky in a glass, amber with a ring of gold around the pupil. She’s shorter than Lance but her presence feels bigger. She looks about eighteen years old. He can almost sense her pushing against his awareness. She looks familiar, but in a diluted way. Like she resembles someone he knows or maybe played a side character in a movie he’s watched a few too many times.

            But the sixth sense dreams sometimes give you is telling Lance that this is the old Slayer.

            “Hey there, kid, welcome to dreamland,” she says with a crooked smile. “Have I got some stories for you.”

            “Where are we?” he asks, “Is this…is this like Legend of Korra? Am I the Avatar now?”

            She snorts, “No, this isn’t some kind of reincarnation thing. Trust me, that would make some stuff in your future reeeally weird if it was. No, we’re different people. You’re you and I’m me and there is zero crossover in the personal identity department. But, being a Slayer isn’t like being a tax accountant, there’s a deeper connection there. You’re part of a long line of Slayers now, and you’re carrying a little piece of our power. Just like I am right now.”

            “Right now?”

            “Yeah, this is my memory. Hell, I’m half a memory, half a ghost right now. But not a real ghost, I’m not haunting you, I’m just dropping in for a visit with my spiritual successor.”

            “Dropping in for a visit?”

            “Part of the deal. You take up my mantle, fight the good fight, I visit you like the fairy godmother of ass-kicking and teach you everything I know. Well. Not everything. Let’s not make this weird.”

            “So I’m not talking to teenage you?”

            “You’re talking to me.”

            “Who is ‘me’?”

            “‘Me’ is who I was when I died. The sum total of my natural personality proclivities, plus my lived experiences. The body you’re seeing now is just one of my memories I’m using to chat with you. Like the tutorial round of a video game.”

            “Wow, okay.”

            “Buck up, buttercup, you’ve got a lot going for you that I didn’t have when I was starting out.”

            Lance is feeling a little overwhelmed. “I do?”

            She shrugs, “Sure. For one thing, you’ve got my son teaching you everything he knows. And he’s a mean little bastard,” she gives him an impish grin, “Just like me.”

            “Your _what_?”

            And that’s of course when Lance wakes up.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from the song 'Trouble' by Valerie Broussard
> 
> I just got a tumblr - I'm deerstalkerdeathfrisbee there too. Feel free to say hi!


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